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GEORGE P. LITTLE
There is no greater public servant than a man who would risk his life for another. This is what many of our firefighters and rescue workers do on a daily basis. As this story of an explosion and fire on Hague Street in New York illustrates, firefighters don’t think twice about putting themselves in harm’s way to save a person in danger. Written in 1860, the story captures the same readiness for sacrifice shown by New York firefighters on September 11, 2001.
One of the most frightful casualties, attended with an awful destruction of human life, that ever occurred in New York, took place at a quarter to 8 o’clock, Monday morning, Feb. 4, 1850, by the bursting of an eighty horse power boiler, in the printing press and machine shop of Mr. A. B. Taylor, Nos. 5 and 7 Hague street, within a door or two of Pearl street. As soon as the explosion took place, the whole building, which was six stories in height, was actually lifted from its foundation to a height of six feet, and “when it reached that elevation, it tumbled down, crushing in its ruins a vast number. So great was the force of the explosion, that fragments of the building were scattered in every direction; the windows in the neighborhood were broken; and a large part of the front wall of the fated building was thrown with tremendous power into the houses opposite. In fact, the building was completely wrecked, hardly one brick being left standing on another, with the exception of a solitary piece of wall eight or ten feet high, as if to indicate what had been . . .
As near as could be estimated, there were a hundred and twenty persons in the building at the time of the catastrophe, scattered throughout the machine shop, and the hat factory above mentioned, in both of which a great many men and boys are usually employed . . .
It was feared that the large majority of them were either crushed to death, or drowned, from the immense quantity of water poured in. At a quarter to 12 o’clock there were three taken out—Henry Geradet, a man of about forty years of age, residing at Brooklyn, badly bruised, belonging to the hat shop; Frederick Tieman, a boy of about ten years of age, residing at the corner of Park avenue and Division street, Brooklyn, taken out by William Story, of No. 4 (Niagara) engine company, not much hurt; A. Eldridge, of the machine shop, residing at 142 Third Avenue, dangerously bruised. These poor fellows were dripping with wet, and shivering fearfully. The little boy stated there were others alive behind him when he was taken out.
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Young Tieman proved himself, as Story stated, “every inch a man;” he did not give way to unnecessary terror and make much noise, when thus confined in the terrible trap. The fire was close to his feet, which were nearly immovable, being jammed in the fallen timbers, when the fireman, Story, reached him, and passing to the boy sufferer his cap, told him to put it over his face, while he (Story) played a stream through the pipe over and around him, for the purpose of quenching the flames. Tieman did as directed, and patiently awaited the hour of deliverance.
Several firemen had been at work some time before Story entered the hole, which was low down, near the engine, in the rear part of the building; and it was only by almost superhuman exertions that he was finally rescued. The voices of several of his companions could be heard in the vicinity, most of them giving way to the impulses of despair, which the little hero endeavored to check by every species of encouragement in his power. “What’s the use of crying’?” said he. “The firemen are hard at work; they’ll get us out, if anybody can.”
It became necessary to saw away a large timber before he could be liberated; and in this and other efforts none evinced a more unflinching determination than Zophar Mills, Esq., who was early on the spot, and worked with a zeal and courage beyond all praise . . .
Towards two o’clock, the multitude became very great, and in fact, all the day, though the cold was so great. The most tremendous excitement prevailed around the tragic scene—women tearing their hair and wringing their hands, as the dead, dragged from out the ruins, proved to be their friends or relatives; while others were in an agony of suspense, almost as bad as a knowledge of the worst.
One man was taken out of the ruins at the rear, after almost superhuman exertions on the part of the firemen, the sufferer having been caught between two beams, and covered with a pile of bricks. The beams had to be sawed, and the poor fellow kept waving his hand, which he had thrust through the aperture, in token that he still survived. More than once the firemen had to stop and play upon the locality where the poor fellow was confined.
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Just as they were accomplishing his final release, the fire behind and around him raged fiercely, and the foreman was constrained to call out that the stream must be played upon it. “Oh, stop till we get him out—just a minute—we can stand it—the man’s alive,” the firemen replied. And they did stand it, and saved the man, though themselves much scorched and nearly suffocated.